


Blade's Worth

by AppleSoda



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Gen, Mercenaries, Novelization, Recruitment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 23:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18537622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSoda/pseuds/AppleSoda
Summary: On a battlefield in Carcino, Marisa makes a split-second choice of what matters the most to her





	Blade's Worth

As she departed, Marisa wasn’t quite sure how to take the soldier’s words that he had muttered to his comrades. “She’s a beauty, but I’ll keep my distance…and keep my head.”

 

Such was the price of developing a reputation. As always, rumors were something far beyond the control of the person they centered. Some of it, Marisa had earned with strike after strike of her Shamshir, which had left a path of destruction as she carved a path across Carcino. That was where the guild had assigned her, and that was where she intended to finish the job and move on, conversations about her looks and personality be damned.

 

In truth, Marisa had never felt comfortable anywhere but one single place in the entirety of Magvel, and she kept such secrets close to her skin. After all, her client didn’t need to know anything about her save her rates, equipment she needed, or the results of hit jobs, bodyguard missions, or the like. What she wanted and liked meant nothing to the nobles, merchants or higher-ranked bandits that offered good coin for mercenaries.

 

Quiet evenings when she could get a flask of wine and spare money for good meal were the only occasions Marisa permitted herself to think about that safe place. It wasn’t a singular location, but sometimes she found it in alcoves or markets or the guildhalls. But where she felt comfortable was wherever Gerik and his mercenary troop— her troop— would be. Out of everyone she had ever crossed paths with, it was always the quick-thinking dancer, the young mage, and the scarred swordsman that she kept closest to her heart. No matter how many people were certain she didn’t possess one, Marisa knew what home was and where to find it.

 

The band of mercenaries and soldiers rounded the walls of the fort, where Prince Innes of Frelia was said to have holed himself up, down to his last men and supplies. If they spotted him from a distance, Marisa knew that they would have to move fast. Though young, he was said to have the skills with a bow equal to deadeyes twice his age. She moved about the plains, alert for the first sound of an attack.

 

Suddenly, the sound of a bowstring’s signature twing as arrows cut through the air. The sound of hoofbeats— mounted knights, surely, resounded uphill. She drew her blade, and felt the lightness on her feet whenever she was ready to cut down a fresh horde of enemies.

 

Princes might have been able to afford bodyguards and fine weaponry, but they bled out just the same as any other person. That she knew for certain.

 

The other soldiers hired by the Carcino Elder had finished their useless chatter as the hills filled with the din of battle. She set to work, and met the steel of another swordsman. The clash of their blades was clear, strong and almost musical. As Marisa leaped back, determined not to lose, she looked into the face of a foe she hadn’t expected.

 

“Well, this is a mess,” Gerik wielded a broadsword twice the size of hers. He had always preferred heavier weaponry, but moved surprisingly fast with an iron or steel blade in his hands. “Looks like the guild’s really bungled this time.”

 

The Guild was getting careless more and more these days, she noticed. Usually, Jehanna’s mercenary guilds were run smoothly, so smoothly that they had earned their reputation for sellswords across the entire continent, surpassing those of any other nation. But in days of late, there were missing payments. Supply routes shuttered. Messages lost. Something was amiss in their homeland, and Marisa couldn’t be sure just what it was.

 

She set her Shamshir against her hip, still on the lookout for stray soldiers. At a moment’s notice, Marisa was still certain she could cut someone down with a flick of her wrist. “Well, what should we do?” In sparring, she had fought Gerik countless times, working on footwork, dodging, and knocking weapons from her foes’ hands. But the terms of this contract had been absolute: to leave no living trace of the Prince or his men, including, if she was right, both Gerik and the dancer Tethys. Two pieces of solid ground in a life that was, for the most part, untethered from other people.

 

Out of everyone in the troop, Gerik was the person that knew the stakes of their confrontation the most. He had seen her grow from a talented recruit to the mercenary that raked in month after month of fees that kept them fed and clothed, at the price of mercillessly cutting through whatever foes she was pointed at.

 

“We can cross blades if you want,” his voice grew wary, “but I’d rather you retreat. Of course, if you betray your employer…you’ll soil that sterling name.” There had been instances, rarer in the past but more frequent as of late, where mercenaries ended up on opposite sides. Marisa had heard that sellswords more desperate for coin would shelve away their good memories, draw weapons, and cut away sentiments for good. More foolhardy ones would even claim that cutting away ties made one a better fighter. But despite all the time she had spent honing her sword, she knew what made her strong. If there came a time where she would have to cut down Gerik, it would have to be for a better cause than some petty Carcino elder’s politica games.

 

“Chief,” she replied simply, “What would _you_ like me to do?” But by then, Marisa had already made up her mind of just how much her sword was worth. 


End file.
